His Master's Voice [4]

by Jay Ellison

  We started moving faster, faster, with a primal urgency. Sasha coiled her legs up around my waist, and I could feel the strength of her conditioning as her muscles squeezed me—those in her legs and those inside her, which were equally strong. I had made the error of thinking I would be in control, but she squeezed and milked me with such power and precision that I couldn’t help but cry out as I came and came again, driving my seed deep inside her hot, wanting body.

  After it was done, I leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

  “Thank you, Timothy,” she said, and Master helped me ease off her.

  He used the chain to jerk me roughly around and coiled it in his fingers so we were standing practically nose to nose. I should have averted my eyes properly, but I was mesmerized by his look. His face was stern, but I could see the heat and hunger in his eyes. “Heel, colt,” he said in his booming, demanding baritone.

  I gracefully slipped down to the floor on my knees so I was kneeling once more before his long, tall form and bowed my head. He laid the crop gently against the back of my neck and rubbed there. My skin shivered at the contact. “Excellent work, my little slave,” he said in that steely voice, and I felt my heart soar at his loving words and pleased tone of voice.

  He stroked the crop over my bare shoulders and back, wrenching shivers out of me. He kept the chain short and tight, not permitting me to move much. I worked at not whimpering or making any noises. I felt vulnerable in a way I never had before. Finally, after what seemed forever, he said, “Present yourself to your master, colt.”

  I reminded myself not to speak while I slid forward on my chest so most of it was in contact with the cool, hard, polished wood, but kept my ass high.

  “Excellent, my little obedient colt. You were made to fit my cock.”

  My heart banged around inside me and my blood washed through my ears. My whole body was aflame with a nervous excitement as Master moved to stand behind me. His hands were rough when he grabbed me by the hips.

  He held me like what he was—my Master—and his cock found me quickly enough, subdued me. I jumped as he speared me upon his male desire. I wanted to cry out at the quickness of it—the intensity of it—but my training kept me in check.

  I knelt there, his powerful fingers digging deep into my thighs, bruising them. He spread my legs wider and plowed his demanding cock even deeper into me, almost deeper than I could bear it. My back arched at the intensity and a small whimper escaped my lips. My whole body felt like it was on fire. That warm, melty, familiar feeling rolled through me, and I started to pant harder, faster.

  Master grunted, but otherwise, he was all business—almost clinical in his using of me. I listened to his breathing, long and lustful, while he pleasured himself. He quickened his tempo, going faster and deeper still, and then an unexpected hand slapped my ass, a gesture so sudden, it made me cry out in its intensity. One of Master’s hands slipped beneath me and he pinch one hardened nipple. The pleasure and pain made me moan and then scream when I felt his seed shoot through me, claiming me and proclaiming his victory to all those who watched us.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After the members of the Society left, Master stayed behind to talk to his friend Henry Eisenberg, but he had instructed me to explore the gardens behind the old colonial. He said I would find them delightful, and I did.

  They were beautiful and well tended and made up of a whole host of different flowering bushes that I couldn’t even guess at. I followed the winding stone path, eventually reaching a tall stone fountain with a stylized “Little Mermaid”-type of character standing in the midst of it, her tail transferring into legs, or maybe the other way around. It was a gorgeous statue, and the fountain surrounding it was full of the most beautiful koi.

  I sat at the edge and watched the oversized goldfish coming right to the edge to check me out.

  “They’re tame,” a man said from behind me.

  I turned and recognized Todd Harrison, dressed in a natty dark purple leather tuxedo and holding a glass of bourbon in one hand. He smiled as he approached me. “Sometimes I sneak treats out to them. The other gentlemen don’t like that. They’re afraid we’ll all overfeed them.”

  I wondered if he was supposed to be talking to me, seeing as we were still on Dollhouse grounds. Or did that rule only apply inside? I didn’t really know, but I didn’t want to seem rude, so I said, “They’re really beautiful. Not overfed.”

  Sitting on the edge of the found with me, he leaned down to tap the water with one hand. “They are indeed quite beautiful, kitten,” he said. “Amazing, in fact.”

  Yeah, I felt a little uncomfortable, like I shouldn’t be here, talking to Mr. Harrison this way. He had seen me at my most vulnerable, pleasuring my Master. Maybe I should excuse myself? But he was a trusted friend of Master’s, and I knew my master didn’t make friends easily, or trust many people. So I smiled in return.

  “You didn’t respond to my PM on Twitter,” he teased.

  I shrugged, blushed at that. “It was really generous, and I would love to jam out with October Rust, but Master’s kept me very busy.”

  “Wearing you out, eh, mate?” he said with a cheeky smile. “Does Byron let you sleep at all?”

  I blushed harder at that.

  “Sorry. Don’t mean to put you on the spot, little kitten.” He cleared his throat as if he were clearing the air between us. “But, honestly—I’d like to see you play. Who knows? My producer might even be there when you do.”

  My heart started knocking at the idea that I might play for Todd Harrison’s music producer. I mean, that would be so sweet! But, of course, I wasn’t born yesterday.

  “I don’t know,” I said, sounding pathetically unsure but, at the same time, overly enthusiastic. I glanced at the koi. “I mean…would it be appropriate for me to see a gentleman outside the Society like that?”

  “I’m not a full member yet, so not a gentleman—not like your man.” Mr. Harrison sipped his bourbon. His words sounded a bit bitterer than I liked. I had hoped that Master’s friends would welcome him into the Society tonight, but it was obvious there was a certain level of jealousy—and friendly competition—between them. “Does your Master keep you chained to the bed?”

  I looked back over at him. Was he joking? I couldn’t tell.

  “That was inappropriate. I apologize,” Mr. Harrison said, correcting himself. “What you do with your Master is none of my business, but it concerns me that he may not be allowing you to reach your full potential. Some gentleman can be somewhat…overbearing, where their subs are concerned. And Byron…well, he’s very…protective.”

  “I don’t think he’s overbearing or overprotective,” I said, wanting to defend my master. “Demanding, yes, but I expected that, going into this.”

  “You enjoy serving a powerful Dom,” he said softly, eyes narrow and lips gently smirking like I was confirming something of extreme importance to him. I started wondering if he wasn’t a little tipsy. Maybe by tomorrow he would have forgotten all about this exchange. “A gentleman who knows how to handle you—sternly, even roughly, at times, but with an underlying gentleness that can make you submit like the soft little kitten you are. That is who you are, Timothy, yes?”

  I didn’t answer that.

  “You are like the perfect courtier, Timothy, do you know that?”

  His words were making me more uncomfortable by the moment. I mean, he was right. That was exactly the kind of Master I wanted. Someone strong but gentle. Someone who could make me submit, but who wouldn’t force me to. But I didn’t feel comfortable discussing that with him. He wasn’t my Master.

  “My offer stands.” Mr. Harrison whipped out a card that he held extended between two fingers. “Just call me and I’ll send my driver to pick you up. We’ll jam out, have some fun. No obligations or expectations. You are welcomed to discuss it with your Master. Or not. Your choice.” He smiled cheekily as he stood up and prepared to
leave. “Don’t make me kidnap you, my little kitten!”

  I watched him head back to the Dollhouse. Yeah, I felt a little guilty about that. But it wasn’t cheating if I discussed it with Master first, right?

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Master was scary quiet on the way home, but, then, I had spent the duration of it sitting in his lap, my head on his shoulder. When the driver pulled the car into the drive beside the townhouse, I groaned. I hated that I had to move from this position. I liked smelling his cologne and lying against him like this. It was so comforting, but I wanted to see his face, wanted to know if I had pleased him tonight. He hadn’t said anything at all about my performance!

  “Master…” I began, sitting up so I could see his face—and the gentle smile on his lips. His eyes were shining in a way I had never seen before. It made him look younger than he was, when the opposite was usually true. He usually acted so mature. It made me forget he was only five years older than me.

  “Are you happy?” I ventured. I couldn’t bear the tension any longer. “About tonight, I mean. Was I a good courtier?”

  He laughed one of those rare laughs as we exited the car, then suddenly lifted me up into his arms. I couldn’t help but smile in return and hook my arms around his neck. “You are the most amazing courtier in the world, my darling!” He kissed me so sweetly I just melted against him.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIX

  I overslept the next morning. Worn out, I guess. But the moment I found the bed empty, I jumped up and headed downstairs. I was usually the one to make Master his breakfast on the weekends. I was feeling pretty remiss about that, but when I squeaked into the kitchen, I found he had beaten me to breakfast.

  Master had made a full spread of eggs, bacon and blueberry pancakes.

  “Oops,” I said, still so sleepy from our late night that my eyes were gummy and I totally forgot to assume a more pleasing position.

  Master laughed at the sight of me. I must look such a mess, I thought. “Good morning, Timothy. Come, eat.” He motioned me forward, but not the way he usually did--commanding me.

  I was confused but did as he asked.

  When he saw me shivering, he stripped off his robe, leaving him bare-chested and just in pajama bottoms, and put it around my shoulders. His hands lingered and he brushed an intimate kiss along my neck that left goose pimples behind. Then he ushered me to the table and poured me some strong black coffee.

  “Thank you, Master,” I said, clutching the warm cup and putting it to my lips.

  “Byron.”

  “Excuse me…?”

  “No Master today. Today, I’m Byron.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He carried a large platter of food over and set it down in front of me. “Today you’re not my courtier. Today…you’re just my boyfriend, Timothy.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I don’t know how I felt about Master changing the dynamics of our relationship, even for just one day. A reward after last night’s performance, he said, but it felt odd. Not bad, just weird and unusual.

  We took our first real shower together, and Master—Byron, that is—let me soap him all up and wash his hair. I enjoyed that. It allowed me a chance to really look at him as the sweet-smelling bubbles were washed away, something that I didn’t get to do too often. He liked to take me in his clothes during the week, and, on the weekends, he wore lounge clothes or a robe in the evenings up until bedtime, when he would strip and immediately welcome me under the covers. He had such a beautiful, well-toned body, and it seemed a shame to hide it the way he did.

  I wanted to kiss every inch of him. I wanted him to take me in the shower, but when we tried, I found I was still tender from last night. He told me that was all right. We would have fun together in other ways.

  We dressed together, Byron letting me choose what a wanted to wear, though he suggested something comfortable because we would be active. I chose a relaxed-fit pair of jeans, one of my usual concert tees—over the past few months, I had been moving more and more of my clothes into his closet, I noted—and a soft, really well-worn leather bomber jacket.

  Our first stop was to Central Park for some horseback riding lessons—something I had never done before, even as a kid. Byron assured me the chestnut gelding they had chosen for me was small and tame, but I still felt nervous getting on. Horror stories from the 4H Club of kids falling off horses filled my head. But the trail was relatively short, and my horse wanted to follow Byron’s down the well-worn trail, so that helped a lot. Still, I was kind of glad when we got back to the stables and I was able to get off—with some help from my boyfriend.

  My boyfriend.

  He was smiling.

  “Don’t laugh at me!” I protested. “That horse was really tall!”

  He laughed at me.

  “I guess you grew up with horses?”

  “I had an aunt I stayed with during the summer in upstate Pennsylvania when I was a child,” Byron told me as we walked back to his car. “She taught me to ride.”

  That was literally the first time I had ever heard him talk about his childhood. I wanted to know more, so, while he drove us to dinner, I asked him more questions—where he’d grown up in the city, and what his family was like. I imagined this big, posh mansion with ivy growing all over it, and VIPs and dignitaries visiting all the time—after all, his dad owned one of the biggest diamond mines in the world. Byron had probably had tennis courts and a swimming pool and had gone to the best schools in Europe or something. He might have played lacrosse with sheiks from the Middle East, for all I knew. But he ignored all my question and just told me more about his Aunt Penny and his summers in the Pocono Mountains, which sounded fun but also surprisingly mundane. He rode her horses, swam in the creeks, and hung out with his cousins a lot. He said they played video games when it was too hot to go outside.

  “It sounds like you had fun,” I said in the bucket seat beside him.

  “I did while it lasted.”

  “What happened?”

  “My Aunt Penny died of cancer when I was eleven. I didn’t go back to her ranch, after that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t answer—but his face had grown lean and somewhat dark at the memory. It put the horseback riding in a new perspective for me, and I wish I had tried to have a better time. It was obviously important to him.

  I was about to ask him if we could do it again when he interrupted my thoughts. “You don’t talk much about your family,” he said suddenly.

  I shrugged. “Not much to tell. We don’t talk much.”

  “You’re estranged?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. My folks are good people. They just…” I hesitated, not sure how to continue. “When I was growing up, we never talked about anything of real importance, you know? Not deep things. So I never really came out to them—either as gay or a goth—although I’m sure they knew. We kind of did ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ and, so, when I moved out, I didn’t tell them a whole lot. We’ve drifted.” I felt bad about admitting that. I wondered if he respected me less for basically abandoning my family.

  He reached out and touched my hand, but that was all he said.

  * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Now

  I was tied at the wrists and ankles and lying on my side on the floor of the nondescript black van. There was a very wet, very tight, gag in my mouth. It wasn’t like the bit and bridle that Master used on me sometimes. Instead of comfortable, bitable leather, it was just a rolled bandana stuffed into my mouth and knotted behind my ears. Likewise, my binds weren’t the carefully tooled leather or specially designed cuffs that we used when we played, the kind that I could wear for hours without them chaffing. These binds were hemp cord and they hurt when I tried to twist my wrists. I could feel my skin searing with every little movement.

  After only a few minutes, I stopp
ed trying to loosen the hemp. I didn’t bite or fight the gag. I just drooled over it in a somewhat gross way. And I didn’t try to sit up. The one time I tried—in the beginning, shortly after my two captors first loaded me into the vehicle—I found myself sliding across the metal floor and banging into a wall as the van took a sharp turn. I didn’t want to risk more injuries by trying to get up again while the van was moving.

  So I just lay there, hog-tied and gagged, my heart thudding up high near the root of my tongue, and waited to see how all this would play out. I was afraid, of course, and unsure, and somewhat disoriented by this turn of events, but at least I wasn’t terrified or horrified or on the verge of breaking down.

  Not yet, anyway.

  After all, I had asked for this.

  * * *

  CHAPTER NINE

  Byron and I were dining at the Royal when the subject of fantasies came up.

  He had ordered us pasta primavera, and though I hadn’t had it before—yeah, I was more a Chef Boyardee kind of guy—it turned out to be really good. He was totally spoiling me. I was lost in thoughts of asking the chef how he’d made the cream sauce so I could reproduce it for my master one night when he started asking me about the night before.

  They were intimate questions—basically a debriefing. What did I like specifically about our performance? What didn’t I like? Did he think there were ways we could have improved? Had he hurt me at the end, when he was rough with me? He asked that last while reaching under the table and running his hand along my hip where I had some serious bruising. His touch, so magical, made a wave of warmth flow through my body. “I noticed earlier…”

  “No,” I said with a little flush to my cheeks. Even after months of being together—being his courtier, his lover, his sub—he could still make me blush like a schoolboy. “It doesn’t hurt. And I like it sometimes when you use force.” I hesitated to add the last. “You know, when you force me.”